Strong Wings
by Whas'up
Summary: Norma Bates arrives in White Pine Bay late fall of 2003. Norman won't stop crying, and Dylan won't speak. She's doing what's best for them, like any Mother would. They're running from Arizona, running from Sam, running from everything, because Dylan has a broken nose, and no one hurts Norma's kids.
1. Beginning

They're all alone on this road. The last car to pass them, headlights shining and reflecting against the wet pavement, high beams on and uncaring, had been about an hour ago. It's dark out here and they're alone, the thought is almost reassuring. It's dark, but every little while there's a street light, a pool of light that shines on guard rails and trash, before it's all hidden back into darkness.

Norman's crying in the backseat. His quiet little sniffles and small hiccuping breaths wear on her nerves. Norma glances at him through the rear view mirror as one of the streetlights of this old highway illuminates her pale little boy. The light glistens against the tears on his round cheeks before they're swallowed in darkness again. Norma's eyes flick back to the road as her lips press together softly.

He's just tired, hungry, and cold. He'll fall asleep soon. Norma refuses to feel guilty; this is for his own good, it's for all of their good.

She grips the steering wheel tighter for a moment, just a moment, the plastic creaking under her grip, before she swallows thickly and reaches to idly play with the radio. There isn't a single station without some static. She skips over the talk radio she encounters.

Norman's wrapped up in several layers of blankets, so maybe he isn't too cold. Norman has more blankets then Dylan has, and Dylan is silent as he stares out his window. Norma's eyes flick back up towards the mirror to look at Dylan, her handsome boy, his blonde hair illuminated as if from some inner source, a bright shining mop of hair crowning a serious little face. His hair is getting darker and darker every day though and he won't be blonde when he's all grown; Norma hopes at least. Dylan stares out his window with hard set blue eyes and a too serious and heavy gaze for someone so young. He glares out into the darkness. His face is swollen and his nose a mess, most likely broken, but he hasn't complained about it. He hasn't said a thing, actually, since they'd packed their bags in the trunk and ran.

Norman can't be too hungry either; they'd stopped at a gas station while the sun was still up and had sat in the parking lot away from the pumps as the boys had a sandwich each. She'd watched her boys eat and tucked one of Norman's brown curls behind his ear when he'd offered her a bite of his sandwich. Norma hadn't felt hungry then and she still isn't. Her body hurts too much to eat.

Norman is just tired, it's way past his bedtime, he'll fall asleep. She hopes he'll fall asleep.

"We're going to stop soon," Norma says. She speaks barely louder than the radio that croons out Frank Sinatra now. His voice a familiar and comforting thing in the air around them as her hand goes back to the steering wheel. The swish-clunk of the windshield wipers is the only response to her words.

Stopping means pulling off to a rest stop and locking the doors. Stopping means all cuddling together in the backseat as they shiver with teeth chattering before body heat warms them. She tried to sing to Norman as they went to sleep the first night on the road, as if it was business as usual, but her voice had broken, cracked right in the middle, she'd nearly cried, tears flooding her eyes without warning, emotion tightening her throat, singing her children to sleep in the backseat of her car only served to make her sad and very, very angry.

"I want to go home," Norman whimpers, his breath fogging against the glass of his window, "Mother, I want to go home."

Norma headlights shine against a sign up ahead. She squints to make it out, but for a hazy and scary moment her eyes refuse to focus. She blinks rapidly and finally makes out the important bits, parking area, in ten miles. Her eyes are itching and her eyelids drooping. Exhaustion is settling deep in her bones. Her face hurts; her split lip, her black eye, and the chunk of hair missing from her scalp all hurt. She is just so tired. Her mouth runs ahead of her.

"Home?" she spits, as she glances again into the rear view. "What the hell do you think is waiting for us there, Norman?" His little face crumples. He's only a little boy, a confused little boy wanting the warm bed he's known all his life. Norma feels regret instantly. "I'm sorry," she offers after a moment. But they can't go home, because there is no home. Sam would kill them all, she's sure of that. There is no home. Norma shakes her head softly as she amends that thought, because home is right here. Home is right here with her boys, but the thought is strangely lacking and makes her want to cry. She'll give Norman a new home, a better home.

Frank Sinatra fades away. Norma turns the radio off when ads begin to play, hoping as she does that silence will lull Norman to sleep. The tires under them drone out a sound against the road and water splashes as they pass. The windshield wipers swish-clunk as Norma's eyes droop once, twice, a third time, and the third time she drifts slightly to the right and nearly skids against the guard rails before she snaps to attention and corrects them, the motion of the car sharp when she does. She's so tired. But each day the further they get the safer they are; she'll wake up with dawn light shining on her tomorrow and be driving again.

She's not sure where they're going, but they're _going_. They're already running out of money and she doesn't know what to do besides keep going.

"We'll find a new home," she says after another mile.

By the time Norma pulls into the rest stop Norman has cried himself to sleep; his head dangling forward as he breathes out gentle snores. Dylan's bright eyes watch her as she locks her door and as she glances to see that the other doors are locked too. He watches her as she crawls between the front seats to crumple her way between her two boys. She'd left her sandals in the front foot well; she wiggles her toes and tries to get blood flow to her legs. She'll stretch in the morning.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" she asks Dylan, as together they look out at the sad port-o-potty at the other end of the parking area that shines blue under a flickering street light. She'd parked far from it so as to keep them out of sight; to keep them hidden in the dark. But she'd walk with him there if he needs-

He shakes his head.

The rain patters down on the roof softly, pluck pluck clittering against the metal, and runs in rivulets down the windows. She wonders if the rain will sweep them away…

Dylan unbuckles, the snap of it loud to her ears before leans his way towards her waiting arms. He'd outgrown cuddling a few years ago, but this is a different thing. Norma rubs her nose along his bright hair and smells the scent of him, imagining the smell of babyhood; she remembers how beautiful he was when they placed him on her chest, she remembers how she'd sobbed and ached and thanked god that he didn't look like his father, but every day that passes he does look like- like his father, the older he gets, the closer he gets to being a man, tall and broad and strong, she hates it. She's remembering the smell of baby shampoo as the stale scent of unwashed almost teenager enters her nose. The whole car has an unwashed sort of funk to it, she'll have to open the windows a bit in the morning, get some fresh air in. She lets out a wobbling breath as she thinks of how at the next gas station the three of them will have to take turns taking a whores bath in the bathroom sink.

"Where are we going?" Dylan asks.

These are the first words Dylan has said since they left Arizona. These are the first words he's said since Sam smacked him across the face and left him bleeding and crying on the floor right next to Norma. If he'd just been at home the first time she'd tried to run... If she'd been able to find him that first time before Sam had found her first-

"Mom?"

"I don't know," Norma admits to him. "We couldn't stay there," she says like a question, and is she really seeking validation from an eleven year old? From her son? She doesn't know, but she knows she feels relief deep in her gut when he nods softly. "No one hurts my kids," she says. She kisses his forehead softly and pats down his hair. "We couldn't stay there."

She feels exhaustion in every part of her body, but sleep doesn't come easy. Her boys sleep in her arms; she holds both her brave Dylan and her beautiful Norman close as she sits awake and thinks of Sam. She thinks of the spit he lobbed at her before he stormed out of their house. He was so sure that she'd still be there when he came back. She feels the spit, phantom like, against her cheek, and she cringes. Tears leak out her eyes, but no sound escapes her.

(She thinks of another rainy night, the first time she tried to run, when Sam had held a gun to her head and told her that he'd kill her before he'd let her leave, that he'd kill them all, before he let them live without him. If Dylan had just been _at home_ , they would have gotten away then-)

She falls asleep crying, just like Norman.

It's a gentle knocking that wakes her a few hours later, the rap-rap-rap of a knuckle against glass, a gentle sound that has her blinking fuzzy eyes and rolling her stiff and aching neck as she looks out into the pre-dawn day and sees the policeman outside her car.

"shit," she breathes as she looks out at a stoic face and dark eyes.


	2. Color in the Morning

The day is a doleful gray when Alex steps out his front door. The world looks washed out, the rainstorm from the night before had dislodged any stubborn leaves that had still decorated the trees, and somehow the pines seems to have lost their pigment too. He's able to catch the beginnings of dawn on his way to the station most days, a simple pleasure, the sky greeting him with an eruption of vibrant reds and warm oranges, or on very special days, the most delicate of pinks and the most arresting of purples, but the clouds crowd the sky today, as far as his eye can see, they hang heavy and intimidating above him as he strides to his cruiser.

His radio crackles on before he can even leave his street, a suspicious vehicle on the highway. He turns left instead of right and reaches for the radio, he'll look into it before he goes in. Gray pavement, puddles that reflect the gray sky, the drive is short but it's drab. He's morose today, a mood that doesn't stray far from him, truth be told, but the souring of the weather, the forecast for another week of rain, has him frustrated. Soon it'll be winter, and then he'll be really pissed.

The suspicious vehicle is an old mint green Mercedes-Benz, Arizona plate. Alex parks about two car lengths back and leaves his engine running as he steps out onto the parking area, clapping his door shut with a bit more force than necessary. He feels the hood first, just a trailing of fingers against the metal, and finds it stone cold. He suspects the car has been parked here all night.

He leans down to look inside, hand cupped over his forehead to peer in.

It's a woman, a beautiful woman with a child bundled on either side of her. The little family is fast asleep in the backseat, he can see the soft rise and fall of the woman's chest from where he stands, he can see the marks on her face too. His frown deepens the longer he looks at her, there's dark discoloration, a nauseating yellow fringing an aging green, around her right eye, the worst of the black eye is still dark blue, there's a fair amount of swelling on that whole side of her face. A severe looking split lip crawls its way up towards her nose. When her head falls back slightly there are four perfect finger sized bruises, looking stark against the delicate skin of her neck. Still water runs deep, Alex's face does not show it, but he finds himself suddenly, completely, enraged to see what has been done to this stranger. Cold, resolute, rage soaks in his blood, he has to take a breath to calm, to beat it back.

It's his job to protect...

Alex raises his hand and knocks against the glass.

The woman stirs almost immediately, the head that had just rolled back now rolls forward as she blinks, looking towards him without any sort of recognition for a second, but then it's panic on her face. Alex plucks at his shirt, displaying the badge on his chest. She blinks at it. Eyes, beautiful, _beautiful_ blue eyes, they widen, her mouth falls softly open, Alex doesn't hear the curse she whispers, but it's not a word easily mistaken for another. Her arms tighten around her children.

He motions his head, a silent command to get out. She looks at him for a moment too long, something defiant melting into those beautiful eyes, they're the clear blue of a cloudless sky, her eyes narrow. Alex motions again, his brow scrunching in irritation, her lips press together and she nods slowly.

Alex takes a step back, straightening and watching as she climbs up into the front of the car, it's not a graceful thing to watch someone do in a car so small, she contorts, slithers, and finally thumps down into the driver's seat after having shown a fair bit of lily white thigh as her skirt went askew. She takes a breath and opens the door, she flinches against the cold breeze that slams against her. The beginning of another rainstorm is fast approaching, dark clouds chasing out the gray, they're rumbling out towards the east. She's wearing a short sleeved blouse, sunshine yellow with thin vertical white stripes, pin pricks of dampness stain the sunny yellow as a misting of rain falls on them, Alex's eyes droop down, just for a second, to the wine colored skirt she wears, a row of shiny buttons in a line down the front, it leaves far too much leg exposed for so late into fall.

(It's not a conscious thought really, but here is the color he was missing this morning. Color amidst the gray.)

"Good morning," she greets, her teeth chattering, trying to hide her nerves with politeness, trying to hide her fear with enthusiasm, Alex can see through her as easy as if she were tissue paper. She's still in her twenties, Alex is certain of that, a young woman with young children, and bruises on her face, it's not a puzzle difficult to solve. "We're sorry to cause you any trouble," she continues, those blue, blue eyes trail down to his name tag and back up, "Deputy, we'll be on our way right now-"

"Mind telling me what you're doing out here?" Alex demands.

Her arms cross, hands rubbing at goosebumped skin as she shrugs a shoulder up, she smiles, a smile that tugs on that split lip so hard she flinches, her hand moves, fingers ghost over the wound before she seems to realize.

"Just a bit of a vacation," she lies, her hand returning to her side, the lie sounds so smooth coming from pink lips, but it's lies, "we're headed towards my Mother's house in Vancouver."

"You're about fifteen minutes from any number of motels," Alex tells her, "that would have been safer." How long has she been driving? She looks travel worn. How many nights has she slept in her car? Where is the man that hurt her?

"We're just," she looks over his shoulder for a second, her eyes flick down the empty road, "trying to save some money."

Alex eases his weight onto his other foot, his hands come up to rest at his belt. She's running, she's got mouths to feed, and she's got no money. He glances behind the woman, glances into the rear window, one of the kids, one of those hungry mouths, is staring back at him. The boy has a broken nose, bruising spreading from the epicenter of his face, bruising just as bad and as colorful as his mother's. The boy has a glare as mean as any Alex has seen.

The woman turns slightly, following Alex's gaze, she makes a tsking sort of sound with her tongue as she reaches out towards the glass, fingertip tapping until the boy looks to her, ' _cut it out_ ', she hisses, mouthing the words more than saying them. The boy rolls his eyes, but does look away.

"I'm going to need to see some ID."

Her smile dims as she turns back to him, she steps slightly from foot to foot, a strong gust of wind sends dirty blonde hair whipping around her face. "Is that necessary?" She collects her hair and holds it against her neck, fingers weaved through it, "We'll be on our way, right no-"

"It's necessary," Alex interrupts.

That defiance starts slipping into her face again, something about her mouth seems to tighten, she does a quick up and down of him, as if to size him up, Alex finds himself both attracted to this untamable quality and annoyed by it. He tilts his head, his neutral expression doesn't waver.

"It's in my purse," she offers before she turns back to the car, opening the door and leaning down, one knee raised on the seat as she reaches over to the passenger side. Her ass, in that wine colored skirt, it's fucking awe inspiring. Alex shifts uncomfortably, looking down and away as he lets out an incredulous sort of huff of air. "What are you doing, Dylan?"

Alex looks up at the sound of her voice, at the creaky sound of another of the Benz's doors opening. The boy with the mean glare is climbing out of the backseat, "I need the bathroom," he says, he's already walking towards the port-o-potty across the lot, had passed Alex without giving him the time of day, his hands deep in the pockets of his cargo shorts, the kid has a sweatshirt at least.

"Doesn't look like you're too prepared for the weather," Alex notes, "it's already snowing farther north. Vancouver must have a foot."

"Oh," she's holding her driver's license out towards him, "we have a lot packed away," she says, watching her son's back.

"These boys don't have school?" Alex asks as he slips her ID from her fingers, as he reads, _Norma Bates, twenty-eight, Arizona_.

"Nothing wrong with taking some time off to visit family," she smiles again, it looks strained, it looks uncomfortable. Alex isn't sure what she's trying to achieve, if she smiles enough does she think he won't notice what's happened to her? Does she think he doesn't care? Because he does. It's his job to protect people.

"Mrs. Bates," he says, holding her ID back out to her, "have you or your son received any medical attention?"

Her mouth opens, but no words come out, for just a moment, before she picks a track, a gentle breath of laughter slips past her lips, "I hardly think that's necessary, we just had a bit of an accident."

"Both of you?" His voice sharpens without his meaning to, her refusal to- to work with him? To let him help her? Her refusal to tell him the truth, it's pissing him off, "What kind of an accident does this?" he motions at her face, a caress in the air feet from her.

"Deputy Romero," she's shaking her head and obviously flailing to find some sort of adequate answer-

"My step-dad beat her."

Alex spins calmly, the boy is back, just as glaring and just as sullen. Alex wonders if using the bathroom was just an excuse to get out of the car, the boy didn't take long to get back.

"Dylan!" she hisses, angry stomps moving her towards her son before Alex reaches out his arm, he doesn't reach to touch her, he's just blocking her, but she nearly falls backward as she flinches back. He didn't mean to frighten her, an apology is in Alex's throat but then she's barreling forward, face contorted as she shoves his arm to the side, so hard he stumbles, she grabs her son's sleeve and moves him towards the car.

The boy ignores his mother, his glare goes from Alex's badge down to the gun on his hip as he tears himself away from her grip, "Could you have him arrested? That's against the law, to beat people up?"

"Dylan, get in the car!" she seethes, bending at the waist to look the boy in the eyes, their eyes match, blue petulantly staring into blue.

Alex checks on the other kid, looking away from the standoff, the other boy is still asleep, drool falling from the corner of his mouth.

"Why are you being such a bitch!?" the older boy, Dylan, screams suddenly, screeching it out so loudly that Alex's head whips around, he takes a step forward.

"Get in the car!" she snarls, leaning even closer, Alex is intimidated and her anger isn't even directed at him, not yet at least.

Dylan's face screws up, eyes wet with tears, he flings himself towards the car, sniffling and looking ashamed as he launches open the door and then slams it shut. The other kid jolts awake at the jarring noise.

The woman is shaking, but it's not from the cold now, her anger is like a living thing under her skin, it's entirely too dangerous how attracted Alex is to that, how the heat of her anger draws him in, how her wrath seems to ignite something inside of him, he keeps his own emotions so completely in control, his rage is so cold- she looks to him, eyes wide, it's not just anger though, how is it possible that one can look so vulnerable and so raw and yet still so angry, Alex could drown in the way she's looking at him. She takes a huge breath in, "Am I under arrest?"

Alex shakes his head, surprised by the question, "No," he answers honestly, loitering in a rest stop is hardly worth an arrest, a fine maybe, but he's not inclined to hinder her when he knows she has nothing.

"Then we'll be on our way, Deputy," she walks past him, shoulder nearly brushing against shoulder, it's like a force of nature moves past him, the energy around her has him wanting to reach out, has him wanting to feel how alive she is against his grip.

"Wait!" he barks, she stalls at the command, her hand outstretched towards the door handle already. "I can help you."

"I dont need any help!" she spins to face him. Her eyes are wet with tears, her mouth is up in a snarl. A crack of thunder rumbles through the air, they both jump.

Alex studies her face, his neutral expression, the expression he's trained himself to wear for nearly his whole life, he lets it slip, he softens, he holds a hand out between them, palm up, "Stay in town, and I can protect you."

She looks at his hand like it's a wild animal, her eyes flick about, she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. "I don't need protecting," she shrugs a sunshine yellow shoulder up, her sentence drifts away.

"I'd protect you," he says again, she can be strong, she can refuse his help, but he won't stop offering it. he'd protect her, it's a promise, and Alex Romero doesn't break promises, not anymore.

"You don't even know me," she says quietly, body facing away from him, head turned to the side to study him.

She just looks at him, for longer then is polite, her eyes traveling over his face as if to see some falsehood, to see some trick, she's saying nothing, and he does the same, looking at her, watching the wind play with the tips of her hair, he stands with his hand outstretched. She leans against her car with a thud, the mist of rain becomes a steady downpour without warning, plastering her hair to her head in seconds, her blouse sticking to her skin, white bra showing through. She swallows thickly after another roll of thunder crashes over head, turning her face up into that rain, she nods.

Alex wonders if she's crying, if there are tears and raindrops both on her face.

"Yeah, okay," she agrees softly.


	3. Cabin by the Pond

Norma hugs herself, tucking her long sweater tightly around her torso as she lets out a shaky sigh. A cup of coffee she's yet to sip is sitting on the guardrail in front of her, a wafting tail of steam lists up from it, she's waiting for it to cool out here, away from Dylan and his angry eyes. She left Dylan in the kitchen, the kitchenette more like, a sad little corner with peeling linoleum and a table that's shorter on one end. Dylan's changed the radio in there to a different station, Norma can hear Nirvana through the walls, the walls are thin. She likes Nirvana well enough, she sways to the tune, she'd learned one of their songs for the piano, she'd learned to play it for Calab, he loved Nir-

Norma shakes her head, a quick little to and fro, her eyes scrunched shut as she forces the thought away, she reaches for her coffee, blowing across its surface before taking a cautionary sip. The coffee had been in the cabin when they arrived, a little old, a little stale, but beggars can't be choosers, most basic staples of a kitchen had been left behind in the cupboards, sugar, flour, baking powder, some rice. She'll go to the grocery store today, she'll have to buy some gas in town too. Another sigh leaves her as she thinks about the money she has to spend. She'll look for work in town today. Everywhere needs maids and waitresses, luckily, she snickers thinking about it, that's all she's ever been trained to be.

"Mom," Dylan pokes his head out the door, the screen squeaks as he opens it, he's leaning out, still in his pajamas, "he's crying again," he tells her, exasperated and still so, so angry. His bruising has gone down, but now there's a crink in his nose that had never been there before. She hates it, it makes him look like- like her brother.

She nods, smiling at him, she gets no smile in return, "I'll be right in," she says, she just needs another minute, just another sip of coffee, another look out over the pond they sit so close to. "Could you turn the radio to something else?" she asks.

Dylan turns away from her without acknowledging the question, the screen squeaking again before it slams against the frame, a solid clap that makes her jump. Norma rolls her eyes and wonders if this is about what he's been through, or if he's jumping into teenagerhood two years early. But he does flip stations, pop music fills the air.

She takes another sip of her stale coffee as she surveys the view from this cabin. Deputy Romero had escorted them here, but that's perhaps too polite a term for the way he'd so aggressively demanded she take her family here, escorted is perhaps too polite a term for the way he'd trailed her the entire way down the highway. He knows the owner, a crotchety old woman named Nancy, he knew she needed some seasonal work done and wasn't too nitpicky about the helpers being little boys that should be in school and their bruised mother. They work a couple hours a day and they get to stay in one of the cabins, Norma got her choice of the five on the property, and she couldn't say no to the view from the farthest cabin.

It looks out over a pond, there's a little rowboat attached to a less than safe looking dock down there, Norma is itching to take the boat out into the water. Beyond the pond is forest, just trees ascending up a hill, no one and nothing but trees, Norma likes that. The water is as smooth as glass this morning, no rain beating on it, no wind rippling its surface, just smooth clear water doubling the sunrise above it. It's as pretty as a postcard. Birds are singing up in the trees, trilling, cooing, and Norma can hear the little rowboat rocking against the dock, she closes her eyes and soaks in the sounds. She breathes crisp, cold air, filling her lungs, she closes her eyes just for a minute.

Norma turns away, carrying her mug into the cabin. It's off-season, which is why even staying here is an option at all, these cabins aren't meant for living in at this time of year. It's cold in the cabin, not as cold as outside, but cold, the kind of cold that has your breath hanging in the air in front of you after every breath. They won't be able to stay here very long, she could buy a space heater? But even still there's no insulation in the walls, they'd freeze in winter. Norma will find work, she'll get some money, and then she'll get her boys the kind of home they deserve, that's what Norma is deciding as she hears Norman's sniffles from the sofa bed they all share. Her little boy won't cry once they're somewhere nice, and, she flicks her eyes over to Dylan, he's playing with his gameboy at the tiny table in the kitchen, and maybe Dylan won't be so angry anymore.

The mug goes on the side table as Norma bounces down to sit on the edge of the bed, "I'm making pancakes," Norma sing songs, they won't be the fluffiest or most delicious of pancakes, what with the ingredients she has to make do with, but she has to feed the boys something. She tugs at the covers Norman has shrugged over his head.

"I don't want pancakes," Norman's voice is muffled.

Norma shakes her head, smiling as she pokes at where she knows his ticklish stomach will most likely be, her smiles grows as she's proved correct when he squirms away from her, a lump under the quilt. "I think pancakes are going to make the day special, come on, Norman," she tries again to tug the blanket from his face, and this time he lets it go without a fight.

Big eyes look up at her, he's pouting with tears in those big eyes, "I miss my bed," he whispers.

Her smile dims, just slightly, she leans down, hand over his chest, smoothing over the quilt, "This is what we have, Norman, don't you like cuddling with me?" she tells him. They're never going back, she's told him. Daddy will hurt her if they go back, he'll hurt Dylan, they can never go back, but Norman continues to cry over what was left behind. He's only little, Norma tries to rationalize, because she doesn't understand how- or why, or, or something, she doesn't understand him.

Once she's run away, and she's ran so many times, there is no looking back, and all Norman does is look back. It's wearing on her nerves.

"You and me, aren't you happy with me?" she asks him.

He nods quickly.

She tickles at his side again, forcing him out from under the covers, "Come on!" she urges, laughing, "I know my little man loves pancakes, come on!" The tickles force his tears away, for the moment.

* * *

Groceries eat up half the money she has left. It's a despondent sort of weight that falls on her as she hands her cash over to the clerk.

* * *

People look at her, at the marks on her face. She flips wildly between being stoic and unashamed, staring at the gawkers and damning them, _look what's happened to me_ , she demands, _this does not make me weak, I survived_ , looking at them until they shy away, to being so embarrassed she feels like digging a hole, crawling in it, and never leaving. The marks will fade soon.

* * *

She walks into a diner with a help wanted sign in the window, leaves the boys in the car with strict instructions to not go anywhere, and leaves the diner thirty minutes later with three fresh uniforms and a shift the next day. (The woman who'd hired her had stared and stared, and flinched when caught staring, at the healing bruises on Norma's face. ' _We'll get you back on your feet_ ,' she'd said, reaching out to hold Norma's hand over the booth top, it took all Norma's will power to keep from snatching her hand away from the woman's pity.) Norman is just as excited as she is when she returns with the good news, but Dylan shrugs, _why aren't you proud of me?_ She wants to ask him, and feels ridiculous for the urge. She'll show him she can do it.

Nancy has them rake for three hours when they get back to the cabins.

By the time Norma and the boys get back to _their_ cabin Norma is exhausted, absolutely filthy, but filled with a sort of antsy excitement that fizzes in her blood. It feels like a new life is building around them brick by brick, it's incredible. "How about some dinner?" she laughs softly, looking at her hard working sons, "After some showers," she reaches out to ruffle Dylan's blonde crown, he twitches back out of her reach.

"I'll go first," he offers, heading away, turning away from the hurt expression that flickers over Norma's face.

"Be quick, okay?" Norma calls as he's shutting the door to the tiny bathroom. He doesn't slam the door, and for that she finds herself immensely grateful.

"What are we going to have, Mother?" Norman asks, looking up at her with patient eyes when she smiles at him, her lovely boy waiting at her hip, she ruffles his brown curls.

"Turkey pot pie?" Norman doesn't look entirely thrilled but he nods, arms circling her waist as he does so. "You're my best little man, aren't you, Norman? Maybe we could make cookies? We're celebrating," she laughs, hugging him back.

"We're celebrating!" Norman says against her side.

* * *

Her shift begins at five in the morning, she has the old alarm clock by the sofa bed wake her at four. The blaring tone startles her so badly from a sound sleep that she jumps, Norman, snuggling against her side, wakes with a confused shout. The blar goes on and on, as she struggles in the dark to see which button turns it off, it had seemed so clear the night before. She's not sure what she hits, but the noise stops, and without it the silence comes rushing back into the dark.

"Christ," she mumbles, hand rubbing delicately at her forehead, she's rubbing circles into Norman's back with her other hand, it takes about two minutes for him to fall back asleep. When he is finally asleep, she untangles her nightgown from his fist, she eases herself away from him. The springs squeak at the adjustment of her weight, and when she rises the floor creaks as she pads socked feet across to the kitchen, she flips on the light over the sink.

Norma rubs at her eyes, leaning against the counter as she does, they'll have coffee, better coffee than here she hopes, at the diner. She gets herself a glass of water instead, turning the tap for cold water and it's exactly what she gets, like it's on the brink of freezing, god, she hopes the pipes don't freeze. She wakes up slowly and goes to brush her teeth.

Her uniform is waiting for her on the kitchen table, where she'd left it the night before, a bright blue dress with a white collar and a white apron. After she tugs it on she goes to see herself in the mirror in the bathroom, a full length mirror attached to the back of the door, she stands under the bathroom light and pulls her hair into a bun. The skirt is too short, just an inch maybe, it'll be good for tips she thinks, but still tries in vain to pull it down. Nancy gave her a coat the day before, when the old woman had seen how Norma shivered as they raked, a warm wool coat that Norma had to cut shoulder pads out of, a relic from the eighties, but it's warm, she's going to adjust it when she has the time, move some seams, change the frame a little, for now though, going to work in the dark before the sunrise, it's going to work just fine, she throws it on over her uniform.

Norma pads over to the bed, leans over Dylan, pressing a mint flavored kiss to his forehead and running her fingers through his hair to gentle him into waking, "I'm going to work now," she whispers to him once his eyes have cracked open. He nods.

She gives him another peck to the forehead, taking advantage of his sleepy state, he isn't pulling away, "Take care of your brother, be good, I'll be back at around eleven and I'll cook some lunch."

"Okay," he mumbles.

"Bye, honey," she whispers.

"Bye, Mom," he replies, turning onto his side once she steps back, he's instantly back asleep.

She's filled again with that almost manic glee on the car ride into town, happiness that forces a smile on her face, her split lip has healed well, had scabbed over, but the smile on her face now has it stinging. It's working out, it really is, this is going to work, they're going to have the home they deserve.

That happiness doesn't disappear throughout the whole morning rush, coffee, eggs, pancakes, they fly through the kitchen window, she smiles at the customers, makes small talk, has a few men stare at her legs and tip her big. It's working out. Deputy Romero comes in, sits at the bar, she tells him how the cabin was a blessing, thank you, his face doesn't move, she'd think he was paralyzed honestly, but he nods and orders an omelet and rye toast. Sally and Wilma, coworkers, fellow waitresses, one very young and one very old, they're helpful and friendly. It's going so wonderfully.

And then it all just goes away. Like a bubble bursting.

A man who'd been leering at her, who'd made some comments about her liking it rough after getting a good look at the remnants of her black eye, he reaches out as she's passing by and shoves his hand up under her skirt, grabs her ass and squeezes so hard she'll have bruises. Her happiness burns up in an absolute inferno of rage. Norma's immediate reaction is to throw coffee in his face, the mug in her hand that she'd just bussed from a booth, it tips forward even as she's turning. He's laughing as she turns, his eyes grow big, and then he has a face drenched in cold coffee.

"What the fuck?!" he explodes, standing and knocking at the booth, the dishes clatter, his own coffee spills over, she backs away as he swipes at his eyes, "fucking bitch!"

The diner goes absolutely silent, small talk puttering out, Norma backs up until her back hits the counter, for a moment fear overwhelms her anger, she's made a mistake, she thinks, but she beats that back, she's not afraid of this prick, he can go fuck himself, he's not allowed to touch her, nobody is allowed to fucking _touch_ her without her permission, not anymore, she glares up at him, lips pressed tightly together, the mug hanging limply by her side. She wishes it had been fresh coffee, hot coffee, she wishes she'd burned him, scarred him.

Wilma reaches from over the bar, age spotted hand lightly at Norma's bicep, "Eric!" she's screaming for the owner, the man in the kitchen, she's shrill and sounds terrified. "Get out here, now!"

The creep takes another step forward, he's not very tall, a pudgy man without any boyish charm. Coffee drips off the tip of his nose. "You're gonna regret that, you fucking bitch," spit comes flying out of his mouth with his words, specks landing against her face. (She flinches and thinks of Sam, her eyes growing wide before she blinks, a shuddering breath falling past her lips.)

"Fuck you," she hisses.

Deputy Romero steps between them, up from his bar stool and over to them in the time it took Norma to blink, shoving the man's shoulder, "There a problem here, Keith?" He shoves the man again, forcing him back a step, and though Norma would never admit to being afraid, because she most certainly _was not_ , she lets out a huge gush of breath, her body going nearly limp against the bar, Wilma's hesitant hand begins to grip reassuringly.

"You alright, darlin'?" she asks.

Norma doesn't have an answer, she's staring at the back of the Deputy's head and doesn't realize when she begins to shake soflty.


	4. Blonde, Blue Eyed

When Alex begins the hazy process of waking up it's because of a slant of sunshine across his face, shining against his eyelids, a gap in his curtains inviting the outside light in. He groans softly, rubbing at his eyes as he rolls away from the woman in his bed. He'd gotten drunk the night before, not unusual for Friday night, but instead of alone with his demons and old photographs, he'd gone out to a bar, and he'd brought a woman home. Alex sits at the edge of his bed, bare toes flexing against the cream carpet and squinting at that blinding white strip of sun through his curtains, his head aching, and regrets everything that happened the night before.

He stands and looks back at the woman, she doesn't look to be waking up any time soon, brittle blonde hair a mess all about her head on the pillow, her mouth gaping open and a soft snore coming from her. Alex shakes his head, looking up to the ceiling, hoping maybe she'll be gone when he looks down, she isn't gone though. He leaves her there and goes to take a shower, washing rancid beer and fruity perfume from his skin, he rubs his face under the spray and tries not to think about how he's brought a blonde, blue eyed woman home with him, and he definitely doesn't think about how it's wasn't the right blonde, blue eyed woman. The shower doesn't take long, he pulls a pair of sweatpants on before he goes back to his bedroom, he kicks idly at the pile of clothes on the floor, glancing to the woman sprawled in his sheets before he approaches her. He doesn't remember her name. "Hey," he urges, hand against her shoulder, she blinks up at him, "I'm making some coffee, come down in a bit, the showers all yours if you want it."

She croaks out a thanks and nods, looking very much like she regrets the last few hours too. Alex will need to drive her home, or wherever, back to the bar to get her car maybe. She's starting to rise as he leaves the room, as Alex reaches the bottom of the stairs he hears the shower going.

"Shit," Alex murmurs after he's started the pot of coffee brewing, after he's popped a couple of Ibuprofen and downed a glass of water as he stands at the kitchen counter. "Shit," he seethes again, looking out the window above the sink. He stands there and debates making any sort of breakfast for his guest, for his _mistake_ , he thinks about it right up until the coffee is done. It's a dark red-brown as he pours it, the smell of it putting something in place in his brain, he doesn't want the woman in his house longer than necessary, he's not making her breakfast.

Alex sips his coffee after adding just a bit of cream, he turns on the television in the living room, turns it to the news, he keeps his ear out for when the water in the shower turns off. His cellphone rings from the front hall as he's pretending to watch a segment on obesity in children, he goes to fetch it from his coat pocket, answering with an unfriendly bark of his name.

Nancy is almost as brusque, "Your broken bird got herself a job at the diner on Elm."

"What?" Alex asks, squinting and battling his hangover back, clutching his mug close to his chest.

"She was as bubbly as a schoolgirl about it yesterday, she'll be there until ten today I think she said." Nancy lets out a breath, Alex can almost hear the smoke exiting her lungs, he can imagine exactly how she looks with the cigarette dangling between pointer and middle finger over the ashtray, lounging on the old green chair in her living room. It's been nearly a decade since Alex last stood in her house, maybe she's thrown the chair out. Alex's mother had helped her reupholster it, he hopes it's still there. "I thought you'd like to see her," she says, "check on her."

He does want to see her, Alex has wandered back into the kitchen, he glances at the clock on the microwave, he can hear the shower stop in the bathroom. He'll have breakfast at the diner after driving his mistake home.

"Thanks, Nance," he groans, taking another sip of coffee.

"Her boys are good workers, especially the older one," she chuckles, "the mean one."

Alex talks with her until his guest enters the kitchen in the halter dress she wore the night before, her heels dangling from her fingers.

* * *

The bells attached to the door jangle when he enters the diner, he's already looking for her before he's even stepped all the way through. She's behind the bar. The sun is shining through the windows, bouncing off the chrome, over saturating everything, Norma Bates looks like some kind of angel standing in blinding light, her hair a burning halo, the sun shining on it just right, until she turns away from the customer she'd been speaking too and she's merely a woman again, dirty blonde hair falling from it's bun, she tucks some behind her ear as she nods and laughs and refills a cup of coffee.

Alex swallows, keeps on eye on her as he walks to the bar, planting himself at the far end.

"Deputy Romero!" she calls out when she sees him, smiling a smile that lights up her whole face, nearly skipping over to where he's sitting, she grabs a mug on her way and places it in front of him, filling it without having asked whether he wanted it or not. "Good morning," she greets, the light from the windows on her again as she stands before him.

"Good morning," he returns.

Her bruises are nearly gone, pale skin where green and blue had been, it is still a bit yellow where the worst of it was. She hadn't let him take pictures of them, that morning when he found her on the highway, she wasn't going to press charges against the husband she was running from, she absolutely refused. And now the bruises are nearly gone. Solid, good evidence, gone. She'll have the scar on her lip though.

Alex clears his throat and looks around the diner, it hasn't changed, menu or decour, in the whole time he's been alive, he already knows what he'll order, "I'm glad you found work so quick," he says, reaching for the little dish of cream, opening one and pouring it into his unasked for coffee.

"This place is great," she tells him, placing the coffee pot over to the side, she leans over the bar, leans closer to him, elbows resting atop the white formica. "I've made a bunch in tips already, I'm going to buy a space heater on my way back to the cabin today."

His eyebrows pull down, concern etching onto his forehead, "Is it bad?" he knows it is. Those shacks aren't made for winter, and winter is quickly coming. There are other places he could have brought her, the good places would have cost her what she didn't have though, and there was no better price than free.

A shrug bounces her shoulders, her head tilts towards the right as she looks towards the door when the bells above it jangle, "It's a hell of a lot better then sleeping in the car." She licks her lips and turns back to him, laughing lightly, "it's actually," she shrugs again, "uh, I've been thinking of it as a blessing," her smile turns self mocking, embarrassment colors her cheeks a rosy pink. "Thank you, Deputy," she tells him.

She's going to be the death of him, something about her stabs at him, her gratitude nearly has him puffing out his chest, like he's a little boy, pride warms his body from his toes to the top of his head. "It was no problem," he says neutrally, he schools his face to impassivity.

"Order up," the cook calls from the kitchen window.

Norma straightens, hands smoothing over her uniform, "Do you know what you'd like?" He orders an omelette and some toast, she scribbles that down,his eyes rove over her form when she can't see. The blue of her uniform matches her eyes, those eyes- god, those eyes, she smiles again when she glances up, "I'll have it right out," she assures him before turning away, still smiling wide and beautiful and free, with almost the easy joy of a child. Her anger had been blistering when they stood in the rain, her raw emotion sucking him in, her happiness does it too, it sucks him in. When she walks away he sees the bow of her apron at the small of her back and has to close his eyes and shake his head.

Halfway through his omelette, which is actually doing wonders for his hangover, a pain filled yelp fills the air, he can tell it's a woman's voice, it's Norma, he turns his head in time to see the coffee fly from the mug in Norma's hand, can see it splash across Keith Summers face, "What the fuck?!" Keith shouts, his shirt drenched down the front, "fucking bitch!"

He went to school with Keith Summers.

Alex stands from his stool as Keith erupts from his booth, Alex's napkin dropping from his lap and fluttering to the ground as he watches Norma back away, colliding with the counter, her jaw jutting out, eyes glaring, looking to all the world unafraid, defiant and strong, but she is afraid, as Keith screams louder, as he gets closer, her eyes dart to the side for a moment, then they clench shut, her shoulders cave forward. Alex knows she's afraid. He's afraid.

"There a problem here, Keith?" Alex demands, rushing forward and pushing his old classmate, another rough shove has the shorter man taking a step back. Alex plants himself between Norma and Keith.

"You don't see the problem?" Keith spits, still shouting.

"I think you spilled some coffee on yourself," Alex says, eyebrows raising, taking another step forwards, forcing Keith another step back.

"That bitch-"

"That young lady," Alex cuts in, "didn't do a thing that I saw." He takes another step, and this time the back of Keith's legs hit against his booth seat. "Take out your wallet, Keith, leave a twenty on the table, and then get the hell out."

Keith's face has turned a dramatic shade of maroon, his jaw clamped shut and the kind of hateful rage in his eyes that sings of violence. Keith looks around, swallowing, like he can't decide what to do.

Alex tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing, "Don't make me tell you again," he says warns quietly.

Keith does what he's told under Alex's watchful eye. Alex stays between Keith and Norma until the bells jangle and Keith is retreating to his truck, throwing himself into the old red piece of shit and gunning it in reverse and out the parking lot. It's not until then that Alex faces Norma, she's still there with her back against the counter. He holds a hand out in the air between them, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she says again, nodding, her voice breathy, she's shaking softly but nodding, she still holds the mug in one hand, her other hand smooths over her skirt in a repetitive motion. "I have tables," she gestures out to the still quiet diner, before her hand is smoothing her apron.

"Yeah, they can wait," Alex takes a step towards her, his hand still held out gently, "What did he do?"

"He put his hand under my skirt," she lets out a breath and shrugs, nonchalant, or trying to be, "he grabbed my ass."

"He hurt you," the woman behind Norma whispers, leaning forward to say it, "I heard the sound you made, darlin'."

"He assaulted you," Alex clarifies quietly, a cold sort of resolution sticking in his gut, _this_ is his rage again, it's cold, it's resolute, it's his job to protect, he'd promised to protect her, no one gets to hurt Norma Bates, not anymore, he looks behind Norma, looks to the older waitress that's holding Norma's upper arm, the old woman nods.

"God, don't say it like that," Norma shakes her head. Looking suddenly flustered. Embarrassed. "I have tables, okay, I'm fine," she steps to the side, the mug left behind her on the counter, her hands rubbing at her face and fingers dragging back into her hair as she walks. Alex stares at the white bow at the small of her back and grinds his jaw.

* * *

Alex goes to the hardware store, picks up a few things for the house.

He goes to the liquor store.

And then he goes home.

Makes himself some dinner. Has a glass of bourbon, maybe a couple. He stares at the picture of he and his mother that hangs on the wall in his living room. The days light dwindles around him, until he's sitting in darkness.

* * *

At around eight, when it's fully dark, it gets darker earlier and earlier now, he takes his cruiser back into town and he finds Keith Summers truck in the parking lot of the same bar that Alex had been to the night before. Alex waits in the parking lot, car idling, lights off, until Keith stumbles out at around ten.

Alex slips out of the cruiser quietly, the neon sign for the bar has made the world a vivid green, like algae staining the world. Clouds block the stars and the moon tonight, it's suffocating darkness above him, the strange green is the only light. It skews things, makes thing seem strange, Alex propels himself forward, glancing left and right, making sure the parking lot is as empty as it seems. Keith drops his keys as Alex comes up behind him, he's bending down to pick them up as Alex rears back his foot and kicks him right in the ribs.

Keith squeals out this horrible sound, a wheeze as his air leaves him, a bark of surprise and wail of pain, he doubles over, hands and knees to the ground. Alex kicks him again, and again, and again, bracing himself against the side of Keith's truck as he does it. He lands one kick right into Keith's jaw, there'll be blood on his boot, dried brown, that he'll have to clean.

"-op, please, stop!" Keith begs, curled up and bleeding, the neon green makes his blood look like oozing black coating down his chin, he's trying to wedge himself between his undercarriage and the ground, but he's too fat to fit. "-lease, stop, stop-"

"You touch her again and I'll kill you," Alex tells him, reaching down and grasping a fist full of Keith's hair, forcing him to look at him. Keith's eyes are wide, he's panting and sobbing, a pitiful piece of shit, "I'll kill you, Keith, I promise."

And Alex Romero doesn't break promises, not any more.

"I won't, I swear I won't," Keith begs, tears rolling down his face, clearing clean tracks through the black blood and dirt on his cheeks, "I won't even look at her, man, Alex."

He lets him drop, and turns right around back to his waiting cruiser, a blonde exits the bar with a shriek of laughter, a man chasing after her.

* * *

Alex waits a couple of days before going back to the diner for breakfast. It's going to be part of his routine, maybe once or twice a week. So he can see her.

But he's decided something, realized something?

Through absolutely no conspiring on her part, Norma Bates has entirely too much power over him. He needs to take a step back.

It's a hard thing to achieve, when she leans across the bar to greet him at every breakfast, when she smiles at him every time she sees him.

* * *

It snowed this morning, puffy, light, snow, that won't stay on the ground long, but the mere sight of it has Alex in a terrible mood. But he's eating his scrambled eggs and toast at the diner. Norma is flipping through a newspaper absentmindedly, leaning against the bar across from him, her hair is down today, it goes past her shoulders. She's telling him about registering her kids for school when he finally can't take it, he interrupts her, he's rude to her, because having her close is frustrating. She smells like flowers, probably just whatever shampoo she uses, and the urge to rake his fingers through her hair, to draw her forward, it's painful.

I'm trying to eat, he tells her.

She snaps up straight immediately, off-put by his tone, a confused expression on her face. "Oh, sorry," she says. "I just," her forehead crinkles softly, her eyebrows drawing together, "thought we were talking, you're my friend-" she almost whispers.

"This is a diner, and I'm just trying to eat," he responds, and sees how her face crumples, her shoulders slump, before she makes her face blank, her shoulders up again.

"Of course, I'm sorry, _Deputy_ ," she says, biting the words out. He can hear her hurt. She walks away from him, and what kind of life is this for him? She's close, he drives her off, she's walking away from him, and the urge to pull her back nearly overwhelms him.


	5. Winter

"Mother?"

Norma grumbles and rolls over on the couch bed, rolls in towards the middle where Norman is tugging at the back of her pajamas, pulling the fabric tight across her neck, "Sweetheart," she sighs, patting gently at the lump that attaches to her side, she's not sure if she's petting Norman's back or his hair or even his little rump, she can't even open her eyes she's so tired, "go to sleep, baby," she begs, "please, Norman."

She's so tired, she aches, and now that she's awake she's craving pickles. Damn.

He smushes even closer against her, cold little toes wiggling their way near her bare knees, she shivers and lets out a breath of laughter, 'eeeek,' she whispers, turning slightly more to wrap her arms around him proper, both arms cocooning.

Norman giggles, copying her laughter as she rubs his back, as she rubs her chin against his dark curls. A powerful blast of wind makes the glass in one of the windows rattle, a sharp accompaniment to the winds low howl. The whole cabin groans. Norma wiggles under their mountain of quilts and thinks warm thoughts.

"It's too dark," he tells her after a moment, "Dylan turned off the light."

"He did?" she cracks one eye open to check, the bathroom light they had started to leave on a few nights ago, it is off.

"I'll talk to him about it, he just forgot," Norma promises.

"I had a nightmare," Norman tells her. The space heater in the kitchen whines as it shuts off, it's on a timer, it continues to glow red for another moment, before that blinks out, something about that red glow has been causing Norman to have nightmares, but they'd freeze without the heater.

"It's over now, you're here with me, Norman. Right here where you belong," she squeezes him and resumes rubbing at his back, breathing in his scent, eye closing softly, he smells like lilacs, she probably does too, they all use the same shampoo and conditioner and body wash, he'd taken a shower before bed, his hair is still damp. She rubs his back, hoping he'll fall asleep quickly, but he doesn't, his little hands tug and twist at her nightgown.

Dylan is snoring a tiny bit, through his nose, he gets that from her. She smiles fondly. She blinks her eyes open again and looks at Dylan, that bright, bright hair on his head soaks up the light that finds its way inside the cabin, cool moon light shining on his crown. Norma is about to start to sing for Norman when she sees, behind Dylan's form with them on the bed, behind the sheer moth eaten curtains, out into the wide world, she can see fluffy snow falling, serene and lovely, the moon is so bright, the curtains flutter, but she can see a bit of the pond, iced over, the tree line, lightly frosted.

"Look at that, baby, it's snowing."

Norman nods against her shoulder, "it's pretty," he whispers, though he isn't facing the right way. Her sweet boy, always so eager to agree.

"It is," she sighs. "Do you like it here, baby?" she asks him, the question popping from her mouth in a rush, the boys started school last week, he brings home pictures and worksheets, he has a little friend at school, he smiles more in this unheated shack than he ever did in Arizona. She needs him to be happy. She can't be happy if Norman isn't happy. "Do you like it here with me?"

His nervous hands still, he tilts his head up and leans back, he smiles, "I like it here, I really do."

"We're going to move into a real house some day soon," Norma says, and hopes it's true, she's saving everything she can, but…

"Will I have my own room?"

"Sure, you will!" she says, but he starts to shake his head, almost violently against where he's rested it back against her shoulder.

"I want to be with you!" he says it too loud, so loud that Dylan grumbles in his sleep, that soft snore abruptly ending with a snort.

Norma shushes Norman gently, she smiles, "Maybe you can have a room for your toys and your books and a bed for naps sometimes, and you can sleep with Mommy in the night time?"

"Toys," he breathes, like it's a word he's never heard, "that sounds nice, Mommy. I like that a lot."

She starts to sing, sing their song, her voice soft, petting his hair as he drifts off, safe and warm with his mother, just where he'll always be, Norma thinks.

* * *

She's vomiting in the diner bathroom hours later, she has no control over the tears leaking out the corners of her eyes, her face is hot, she's a mess. Wilma knocks from the other side of the door, "Honey, are you alright?"

This is the second time this week this has happened.

Another retch forces burning acid up her throat, she'd already lost the small breakfast of toast and coffee she'd managed to eat this morning, now it's just dry heaves that make her ache, she aches everywhere. "I'll be fine, I just need a few minutes," Norma calls out, reaching for tissue and wiping around her mouth, she blows her nose, she spits into the toilet that, thank god, was just cleaned last night. She's sweating now, she feels damp at her armpits and feels disgusting, her skin feels clammy as she places her palms against her cheeks and slumps to the side, shoulder resting against the wall. The kitchen is right on the other side of that wall, she hears Eric singing along to some classic rock, a pan clatters.

"I'll keep an eye on your tables for a little while, take care of yourself," Wilma calls, voice pitched for comfort, and then she's gone.

Norma's tears turn angry, she sniffs and stands on shaky legs as a swirl of water washes away any sign of what just happened. She stares down as the toilet refills the bowl, the lapping water barely heard over the shudder of old pipes, she wishes everything was so easy to wash away. She's pregnant. She'd taken a test a few days ago, the cheapest one the drug store had to offer. Norma is pregnant and had been living in a sort of denial, but that denial chooses today, right now, this moment, to break apart, and she breaks with it. She sobs out a quick breath before she slams her hands over her mouth, her legs nearly give out under her.

This is what she gets, for thinking she was finally free, and not just free but happy, free and happy and saving money. She takes a deep breath and eases it out, it hitches in her throat, tears leak out of her eyes. Her hands smooth down her uniform front as she steps up to the sink, hands over her apron as she looks at herself in the mirror, her hands rest against her still flat stomach. A baby is a happy thing, but for the second time in her life she finds herself sobbing uncontrollably and fighting the urge to beat at her own stomach to force a pregnancy from her body.

She doesn't want this- this, thing, it's not a baby, she thinks, she doesn't want it, had never wanted it and now it grows in her belly. It's not mine, she thinks, licking dry lips and looking at her reflection, staring into her own red rimmed eyes, wondering if she's crazy. "It's not mine," she whispers. Norman is hers, her beautiful baby boy, Dylan was- was, Dylan is hers, her little man who snores like her, Dylan is hers now. But this, this thing, she wants to claw it out, she wants it gone, she wants to throw it in the toilet and watch it swirl down the drain with all the other shit-

Norma takes a breath and bends in half, forehead against her shaking hands on the porcelain of the sink, what kind of woman is she? What kind of person thinks that? Guilt or morning sickness, probably the later, threatens to bubble up once more, she jerks upright in response. Gulping at air and looking towards the water damaged ceiling.

Sam told her he'd gotten a vasectomy. She should have known he was lying. "Bastard," she hisses, smacking the heel of her hand against the sink. Sharp knocks, three short raps, sound against the door, "Occupied!" she calls out.

"Norma, open the door."

Norma rolls her eyes, Deputy dour, of course, a burst of annoyance and rage has her turning and smacking her fist against the door, " _Leave me alone_!" she hisses.

Men, all the same, you think you can trust them, and they fuck you. She thought they were friends, how fucking laughable, no man makes her a fool, not anymore-

"Norma," he pauses, she breathes in through her nose and stares daggers at the peeling paint and old wood that blocks sight of him, "I'll break the door down if I need to."

Is he serious? She knows he is. Her hands brush at her sweaty hair desperately, she spins back to the sink."Alright, _alright_ , give me a second," she snaps, turning the cold tap and splashing the water across her face quickly.

She looks like a god damned mess when she looks at herself in the mirror, so much for tips today she thinks bitterly. Norma opens the door sharply, surprised to find the Deputy so close, they both take a step back. "Here," she says after a second, shoving past him, shoulder brushing against shoulder, "if you need it so bad," she shrugs and tries to walk down the cramped hall. A graze of his hand against her wrist, a loose grip that lasts merely a moment, has her stop.

"Hey, did somebody hurt you? What's the matter?" he asks, that face carved from stone, maybe it shows more emotion than Norma is willing to admit. He looks angry enough to kill, but his hand stays gentle as it moves up towards her elbow, his fingers barely held against her.

"No," she sighs, shaking her head, "I'm fine."

His head tilts, he looks her over, a quick sweep from head to toe that doesn't feel predatory or lecherous or gross or anything like that, he's a cop looking her over, his eyebrows constrict in concern, and that pisses her off. She tears her arm from him, stomps two steps away, intending on leaving him in the hall, before she decides she actually has something to say to him. Norma spins on her heel, finger up and pointing at him, "You don't have to pretend to give a damn, you know?" she says, not yelling, but sure damn close.

"What are you talking about?" he takes a step forward.

She takes a step back, "You heard me, alright? You don't like me?!" her finger moves to the right, so does her head, she juts out a hip and snarls up a corner of her mouth, "then don't fucking worry about me."

"Hey," he starts, hand rising as if to touch her-

"That was all bullshit in the moment, back at the rest stop, wasn't it?" she spits, dangerously close to crying but she beats that back, not totally successfully, "Good guy cop protecting the little lady?" she snorts out a wet laugh, blinking back tears, she still tastes acid in her mouth, her nose still burns, "Well you can shove it! I don't need you, and I never did!"

She spins again and stomps away, ignoring him when he calls her name, hoping he won't make a scene out on the floor.

He doesn't.

He sits and orders from Wilma, he eats, he pays, the whole time looking at her, a passive sort of gaze, she spends the entire time ignoring him angrily and trying to keep herself from getting sick.

* * *

Norma needs an abortion. She needs a divorce.

Norma has never had an abortion, she's not sure she can do it, as for divorce, she's worried Sam will know exactly where to look once she files for one.

She's sitting at the end of the rickety little dock on the pond in front of their cabin, feet swinging down towards the water that's barely frozen over, she can see fish swimming under the thin layer of clear ice. The rowboat is frozen against the dock, she misses the hollow sound it used to make as it rocked, wood against wood. She's leaning back on her mittened hands and looking out over the water towards the trees, the dusting last night has made a winter wonderland.

The boys will be back home soon, the bus bouncing and skidding up the mountain road, she thought they might be too far out for the bus, but it seems as if nearly half the kids in the district live on some lonely mountain road, there are a lot of lonely mountain roads out this way.

She needs a divorce. A lawyer. She doesn't have the money for one.

She needs an abortion...or not? Maybe? She shakes her head, that's not even a thought she can let herself think, a newborn right now? Her family is technically homeless, and living paycheck to paycheck. They're not going to have this cabin forever, it's already too cold, but they have nowhere else to go. A baby, she couldn't care for one. And maybe, she does feel guilty, she really couldn't care for this one.

Norma knows when it happened, when she got pregnant, the last time Sam and she were- together- if that's even the word to use, he'd hurt her, he was drunk, she shakes the recollection away violently, that's no way for a baby to be made. She won't bring another baby made that way into this word, she won't, no one can make her. Is abortion legal here? She doesn't know. Planned Parenthood, she thinks, are they around here? Is that the only place to go? She doesn't know, she doesn't know shit and it is terrifying.

She wishes she could do something dramatic like throw her wedding ring into the water, but she'd pawned that the first week in town. She could throw herself in there, she thinks morbidly, but she isn't serious. Not really. She could never leave Norman. Could never leave her boys.

But maybe she could have the baby, she thinks, the thought makes her bite her lip, she thinks of the smell of baby hair and baby warmth, of giggles and smiles, of first words and steps and even first tantrums, her boys are big now, Norman's eight years old, maybe the baby is a girl, a sweet girl that looks like her and loves dance and music and dresses, Norma could make her daughter beautiful dresses, the kind she always wanted growing up, they could wear matching dresses. Another baby, Norma smiles wistfully. Maybe…

The yellow behemoth carrying screaming and laughing children, she can hear it as it pulls up, squealing to a stop in front of Nancy's house, doors creaking open and releasing her boys. Norma stands quickly, thinking about what to make for dinner.

* * *

She's at work a week later when she loses the baby.


	6. Buried Things

**Trigger Warnings: miscarriage, mention of suicide**

Alex pulls into the diner parking lot around nine in the morning, and waits for a blue Pontiac to pull out of the spot right near the front door. He gazes out his window as he waits, an elderly couple hold hands as they exit the diner, Alex watches them until they make it safely to their car. The parking lot is sludge, grey and squishing under his boot as he steps down from his police vehicle after he parks. He frowns as he walks, eyes pointed down, something that can't quite decide if it's rain or snow is falling down on him, dusting his head and shoulders with wet. He hates winter.

As he enters the diner hot air bombards him, a vent above the jangling door blasting at him. The booths are full, but he's only ever sat at the counter, only ever ate alone, he sits himself down and looks around. The place is familiar now, the layout, the people, the white formica counters and the red pleather seats, he's come here at least twice a week for as long as Norma has worked here. She hasn't been the one to serve him since he snapped at her. Her avoidance had been impossible to miss, her irritation with his mere presence a visceral thing in the air between them whenever he came in for a late breakfast. And then last week she'd finally told him what had been so obviously simmering under her skin.

It would be easier, he thought, to hold his budding unreciprocated emotions in check if they weren't friends, if she didn't trust him and lean over the counter and talk to him whenever he came in. He was wrong.

Norma works Monday, Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, five to eleven. Alex knows this because the schedule for all the waitresses is pinned to a bulletin board in the hallway that leads to the diner bathroom.

Today is Tuesday.

Norma isn't in the diner.

He gives a distracted nod to the girl that places a mug in front of him, a girl barely out of teenagerhood wearing a sour expression.

She turns away after filling the cup, filling it to the brim, leaving no room for any cream, she turns without speaking to him, walking a few steps down to an older waitress that is passing dirty dishes through a slot in the wall to the dishwasher. "I had plans today, you know," she spits, a hand with rings on every finer thuds to the counter, "my boyfrie-"

"I'm sick of your belly aching," the older waitress snaps, turning her head to glare, "orders up for table five, get going."

That older waitress is the one that comes to take his order about five minutes later, smiling at him, "Morning, Deputy," she greets, "you getting the usual?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, nodding as he lifts his mug to his lips. "Where's Norma today?" he asks.

Alex takes a look at her nametag, Wilma, he recognizes her, she licks her lips and shakes her head, looking over his shoulder towards the irritable girl, "She called in today. She left early yesterday, pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. I didn't want her to drive herself home, but there wasn't much else for her to do."

A stab of guilt pierces through his belly, an actual ache that has him grimacing and placing his mug down with more force than he'd intended, he would have come for her, given her a ride home. He wishes she knew that, how would she know that, if he's never told her.

"She was sick last week too, I ran into her as she was leaving the restroom," Alex says, trying to lead Wilma into saying more. She doesn't disappoint, she leans forward against the bar, grey hair framing her face, but for a few last strands that stubbornly remain brown.

"I've been real worried about her, been losing weight and getting winded so fast," she shakes her head. "I told her to see a doctor but she says she doesn't have the money for that, she says 'Wilma, worrying like this is gonna turn you grey!' ain't that funny?" Wilma breathes out a puff of laughter and shakes her head.

Alex nods his agreement, he takes another sip of scalding coffee.

She straightens and smooths down her apron, her smile already turned towards new customers just entering the place, "Sit anywhere you'd like," she calls to them as she reaches for the little bowl of creamers further down the counter and slides it Alex's way. And to Alex, "I'll have your food right out."

Alex doesn't come here for the food. But it arrives and he eats it.

People get sick, he knows that, it's probably a stomach bug, but it's on a loop in his brain, how she'd looked when she'd yelled at him the week before, pale and shaking, red rimmed eyes that threatened tears, sweat at her hairline. Something a lot like betrayal in those blue eyes as she'd snarled at him.

He makes it through his day, he's half distracted and slightly pissed off the entire time. He hides it all under a calm facade. He hides it under a stern gaze and a motionless mouth. His shoulders are going to ache for how rigid he holds them, his jaw grinds mindlessly as he patrols and later, when he's at his desk, his left hand clenches and unclenches on top of his paperwork.

It's dark out when he leaves the station, he isn't sure the time, but he knows it's not too late. He's known since that morning that he was going to check on her, but something had been holding him back, he'd dragged his feet, but the moment is here now. It's go home or go to her. He goes to her.

The road to Nancy's is one he remembers well, even in the dark he knows the turns, he knows the potholes, he knows every bump. If he were a more fanciful man he thinks he could close his eyes and remember years ago, remember his mother singing to the radio and navigating this same road with him in the passenger seat. He could close his eyes and remember how her dark hair would fly because of the rolled down windows as the summer heat beat at them. Could remember her laughing and her happy eyes as they bounced up the mountain. If he were a stronger man he would close his eyes and think of her and of the good and happy times that live locked away in vivid technicolor at the darkest corner of his brain.

Instead, he shakes the memories away as he pulls into the parking area.

He trudges through half frozen mud, he slips twice and curses. He knocks against the door of her cabin, solid knocks. He doesn't wait more than thirty seconds.

She opens the door wearing about four sweaters and a pink hat. Her face is makeup free, bags under her eyes are a shade of purple that speak of absolute exhaustion, the rest of her face is frighteningly pale. She's bent forward slightly and leaning her weight against the door frame as she looks out at him through the still shut screen. Yellow light seeps from behind her and over the porch. "Deputy," she greets, eyebrows raised and obviously surprised to see him. "What are you doing in my neck of the woods?" something about her tone suggests she'd rather he be anywhere but in her neck of the woods. That's not quite a surprise.

"Wilma told me you called in today," Alex responds, he keeps his face carefully neutral, he's trying to sound nonchalant, but he doesn't think he quite pulls it off. He's here on her doorstep to make sure she's alright, nothing really nonchalant about that.

"And you came all this way to check on me?"

"Yeah," he licks his lips and nods, "I guess I did."

Norma rolls her eyes, "Got your own little network of spies watching me?" she asks, irritated and maybe even slightly unnerved, he can tell by the way she looks him over, by the way she reaches for the doorknob, ready to slam it shut. He takes a deep breath in and looks around the porch for a second, his hands come up to grip at his waist, to rest on his belt.

"Could I come in?" he asks.

"Need a warrant for that type of thing, don't you?"

He tilts his head, giving her an unamused look, and she relents with another roll of her eyes, stepping inwards and leaving the door open for him. He opens the screen and steps inside, looking around as he does so. The pull out sofa is a mess of blankets, but everything else is clean, as clean as a shack in the woods can be. Alex shivers, it can't possibly be colder in here then it is outside, his mind is playing a trick on him, his breath fogs as it leaves his mouth. "Jesus," he murmurs as Norma pads softly towards the kitchenette. He follows after her and when she offers him a seat, he takes it.

She pulls out the chair opposite his and sits with her arms crossed, "I really am okay, aren't I allowed to take a sick day every once in awhile without the police being called in?"

The truth of it is that she looks like she's about to pass out, the truth is that Alex is more worried for her now then he had been on the drive up here. The truth of it is that Alex wants to bundle her up and carry her to a doctor this very moment. Alex doesn't think she'll like the truth of it. "Aren't I allowed to be worried about a friend?" he sends back to her, leaning forward and putting his weight against the table, it wobbles.

She smiles without any humor, "Sure, you are."

Alex works his jaw, looking around. He'd been the one to send her here, and here is looking pretty much like a shit hole, a cold shit hole that she's freezing to death in, no wonder she's sick. He'd promised to protect her…

"I don't want you staying here anymore," Alex says.

A startled sound that's almost laughter, but mostly derision, escapes her, "Oh, okay then, I'll just pack our bags."

"Really, Norma," he starts, and she cuts him off.

"We'll move into a house down on Riverview, an eight bedroom, twelve bath, Colonial sty-"

"Stop," Alex shakes his head, wincing at her tone, wincing at the way he's fucked all this up. "I'm sorry, okay?"

She shrugs, eyebrows rising, "For what?"

"For snapping at you," he opens his hands towards her on the tabletop, frustration oozing from him despite his best efforts to keep it in check. She does this to him, gets him riled up, makes him show more than he wants. "I was having a tough day, and I just wanted to eat."

That's bullshit, and he thinks she knows that, but she shakes her head, limp blonde hair falling from below her hat, falling in front of her eyes, she swipes at it angrily. "You don't have to explain anything to me, I'm just your local wait staff so-"

"You're more then that!" Alex says, voice notching up in volume, she jumps and he sighs, he rubs at his eyes and threads his fingers back through his hair, he flops against the back of his chair, "Sorry," he mutters, "you're more then that," he licks his lips, "to me, you're more then that to me."

She swallows, looking ready to jump out of her chair and run. "Oh yea?" she asks, still with that sharp tone.

"I want to be a friend to you, Norma," Alex says softly, wondering if the truth is written on his face, wondering if she can see it there. The truth, he's been dreaming of blonde, blue eyed women since he met her. "You can count on me, from now on. What I said at the rest stop? That wasn't bullshit, Norma."

Her eyebrows crumple, a breath rushes out of her, Alex is suddenly afraid she's going to cry. But she drags in a deep breath, she sniffs and looks over to the heater when it snaps on with a crackle, blue spreading along the coils before they burn red hot. It looks dangerous. This whole shack is a fucking death trap.

"It wasn't bullshit," Alex says again. Her eyes close softly. She plucks gently at the fraying edge of one of her sweaters, green thread wrapping and unwrapping about her finger, her foot is bouncing under the table. "Now, come on," Alex urges, "tell me, how sick are you? Do you need me to bring you to a doctor?"

She takes another deep breath in, and exhales it shakily as she blinks open her eyes, she tilts her head and looks at him. Her eyes are wet, she hiccups in a breath and promptly bites her lip and turns her head to the side again. "Everything's fucked up," she finally says, the words gushing out of her.

"Tell me," Alex urges, her tears are getting to him, and she's not even letting them fall, her eyes are wet and filled with tears.

She shakes her head, tilting her head up and wiping at her nose, looking at the ceiling as she blinks her eyes and sniffs. A sob bounces out of her chest, her graceful hands clench into fists on the tabletop. "I was pregnant, I-" her breath hiccups up again, she sobs out another breath, her whole chest shuddering, "I lost it yesterday, I think, I don't know, I- I-"

"Norma," he says, reaching for her hand, but laying his fingers gently around her wrist when her hands don't unclench. "I'm bringing you to the hospital."

Norma shakes her head wildly, "I can't-"

"Are you bleeding?"

She drags in another shuddering breath, she looks down to him, her chin trembling softly, those eyes, god, those eyes, staring into him, as if that blue can reach his soul, and he thinks he can see as deep into her. That vulnerability that he'd seen a glimpse of at the rest stop, it's laid bare before him now. It's like looking into an open wound. Violent and human. Her eyes are like deep water, and he's being pulled under. She swallows and nods, her whole face crumpling as she lurches forward in her seat, hunching over the table.

Alex stands, his chair scraping back against the peeling linoleum, it takes two steps to get around to her. He kneels beside her, his hand still over her wrist, he's pushed up the sweaters and it's her soft skin he squeezes gently, feeling her pulse, a motion he's not even aware he's doing until he realizes her pulse is rapid and weak. "We're packing a bag and we're going to the hospital."

"The boys," she objects, shaking her head.

He glances towards the clock glowing green on the microwave display, it's nearing six now, it's dark outside, "Where are they?"

"Norman's with Nancy, he's bringing me dinner back."

"And Dylan?"

Alex stands, he drags her up from her seat even though she steadfastly refuses to cooperate, "I don't know where he is. I can't go," she tells him, "I don't know where Dylan is."

"What do you mean?" Alex's brows crumple, adrenaline has invaded his blood by now. His ex-wife had a miscarriage once, he'd woken up next to her pale and nearly lifeless in the bed they shared, he'd woken in a pool of cooling blood on their sheets. Memories of her are merging with Norma right in front of him, and it's Norma in the bloody bed, it's her pale and dying and whispering his name through chapped lips.

"He didn't come home!" Norma flaps her arms wildly to escape his guiding hands, she steps away from him and looks like she considers stumbling to the sofa bed before she launches towards the counter instead. She catches her weight on its edge and raises a hand when he tries to follow her. "He wasn't on the bus, I don't know where he is. He used to do this all the time, I know he'll come home, but I have to be here, if I'm not here-"

"I will go and I will find him after I bring you to the ER, Norma-"

"I said no!" she screeches, pushing at him violently when he steps close.

He backs off, sighing exasperatedly, he's rattled and she makes him show more then he'd want.

"You don't tell me what to do!" she snarls, "You're not my husband!"

Alex takes another step back, he's breathing hard and he tries to slow it down, he holds his hands up, in supplication, in surrender. Norma, his ex-wife, an amalgamation of the two is lurking at the back of his thoughts, they're dying, dying in a pool of blood. Like lightning across his brain then, he remembers how his mother had looked when he'd found her body, how she'd looked with her dark eyes open and sightless, how she'd been covered in dried vomit and lay in a pool of it in her bed. Like lightning across his brain, he feels it on his fingertips, he remembers how cold she'd been when he reached to touch her.

He takes a step forward, and another when Norma doesn't object. He grabs at her hand and something in him, some tightly wound spring of panic, lessens when he feels her skin warm and alive. "Alright," he agrees.

She lets him fold his fingers around hers, watching him cautiously.

"I don't need the hospital," she says.

"Will you go to Nancy's, please?" he asks, he's begging. "Will you please go there until I come back with Dylan?"

She nods, her gaze skittering over his face. Alex wonders what he's showing her now, what emotion has leaked out of his tightly held control.

* * *

It takes an hour and at least a tank full of gas to find the kid, and in that time it's begun to rain. Like God up in heaven trying to drown the world kind of rain, and Alex's annoyance and his worry have been playing off each other since he left Norma with Nancy.

Dylan wasn't at any of his friends houses. He wasn't at the library or the only arcade in town.

The kid is walking down Ambrose, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his head slanted down. It's the hair, plastered down and wet, that Alex recognizes as he's creeping down the road and trying to see through the water running down his windows.

Alex turns on his lights, red and blue splatter across the puddles, reflecting off of every wet surface. Dylan looks up, startled for a moment, he doesn't stop walking as Alex comes up beside him. A blast of cold wind and rain come at Alex as soon as he lowers his window, "Hey!What do you think you're doing, Dylan?!"

"I'm taking a walk, what does it look like!" Dylan screams back.

"Your mother is worried about you!"

"Oh yea?" Dylan yells back, the snort accompanying it twists his face, his plodding steps still carrying him down the sidewalk.

Alex shakes his head, petulant little shit, Alex peels forward with a screech of tires on wet road, he speeds the little bit to the next driveway and pulls in, still partly in the road as he blocks the sidewalk. Dylan stutters to a stop, his mouth open and something like fear in his eyes as Alex unclinks his seat belt and throws his door open, stomping to stand in front of the kid so much shorter then him. Rain soaks him in seconds, he's got water in his eyes and in his shoes and now that he's so close he can see that Dylan is shivering and soaked through.

"Listen," Alex says, his tone softer than he'd wanted it to be, "you know your mother isn't feeling well and you pull this kind of shit?"

Dylan's bottom lip pouts out before he blinks and looks away, he hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder as he shrugs. "Thought she'd be happier," he shrugs again, "without me there."

This kid looks a lot like Norma, Alex realizes, not for the first time, and it's not just the eyes, but the mannerisms, the animation of their expressions, everything they're feeling is plain to see, "What the hell makes you think that?"

"She doesn't want me there, and I don't want to be there," Dylan spits, he tries to walk around Alex, Alex steps with him, holding up a hand between them.

"That's crap, Dylan," Alex tells him, he wipes water from his forehead and blinks as the rain beats down harder, "she's your mother and she loves you. Now get in the damn car before I throw you in there."

Dylan huffs, looks Alex up and down as if to see if he could follow through with the threat, but then he rolls his eyes, the eyes his mother gave him, "whatever man," he grumbles.

"Alright, come on," Alex grabs Dylan's shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he turns and them both walk to the SUV still playing red and blue across the soaked world.

Alex cranks up the heat as they climb in, Dylan's teeth are chattering.

A seething sort of anger is taking the place of the worry Alex had felt, buried feelings of remorse and regret are starting to bubble up, feelings Alex has about his mother, about how he treated her. The image of her dead body is stuck to the back of his eyelids now. He's not a strong enough man to remember that, he's not strong enough to look back. Alex aches for some whiskey. Enough of it to burn his memories away.

Dylan is pretty angry too, "You don't even know anything, you know?" he thumps himself back against the seat, his arms crossed, staring out his window and shaking his head, "My mother doesn't want me there, she doesn't even like me. I can see the way she looks at m-"

"Shut the hell up," Alex snaps.

The kid sighs.


End file.
